You say I am a pillar, a strong ship that stays the course. Me? But what have I done? What is a ship without a captain, a captain without sails, and sails without wind? It is naught but a floating prison, and I am trapped within. How do I navigate the treacherous waters without One to hold the compass and turn the wheel? But oh, my Father, when you are master and commander you navigate the highest of high seas, and pass with disdain far lesser harbors and ports-of-call, ignoring the sirens cry. Nonetheless, with no sails even the most seasoned captain is stranded, for what is it to have all knowledge but no action? Though I have no money, no power, no worth of my own, my worn and patched sails are lifted high, their masts crafted by a lowly Nazarene carpenter. He rides in the crow’s nest, with a lover’s smile admiring his handiwork below, occasionally calling down to me, his beloved. Sailcloth unfurled, captain at the helm, I prepare to embark. However, as I often do in my silly human foolishness, I have disregarded and forgotten the catalyst, our momentum behind our movement and motion! We stand as a toy boat upon a table, sitting static on its glassy surface. Oh, where is the wind?! Where is the breath and spirit of all creation, that immeasurable and unknowable force that moves all life?! In unison, my Father and my Lover call out, beckoning forth the winds from the four corners of the earth, their voices loud and passionate, as one brother would call to another, or a husband to his wife. But no, even that lacks in comparison. It is as if the three are one, intertwined in a way that no mortal words can express nor mortal minds conceive. The one is a manifestation of the others, and they are unified in their sameness…but unified all the stronger in their distinction. And so here comes the wind, rushing in upon the clouds. I hear it, but I cannot tell where it came from nor where it is going. No matter, I think to myself. It moves, I breathe; it breathes, and I move. So hoist high the banner! Raise it high for the lowly, the oppressed, the poor and meek – the least of these! Raise it high for my own brokenness and my own sinking ship! “Wave the suffering Chi Rho!” And so, with flag flapping and sails full, we exit the harbor, knowing well the destination is the journey, and the journey the destination. Our crew consists of lepers and outcasts, drowning but for the driftwood King we so desperately cling to. Our old rifle barrels are vases for our flowers, and the only “cannonballs” you’ll find coming from our gunports are when we splash joyfully into the water of life. The flags we once pledged allegiance to now are rags used to scrub the decks and toilets; the cold cash we once trusted in as god is now the tinder to start our trash fires. Above the mess hall door, a hand-painted sign reads Faith does not fear hunger.
We may never be comfortable, or safe, or sanitized …but we are free.
We have a love overflowing.
